THE FRENZY Joyce Carol Oates

Early afternoon, driving south on the Garden State Parkway with the girl beside him.

Passing exits for Point Pleasant, New Jersey, for Toms River. Something haphazard in his driving today, which is unlike him.

Wind from the Atlantic is rocking the Subaru Forester, and he feels a thrill of, what is it, a tug, like a tug-of-war, invisible hands on the wheel, which is bis wheel, so his reaction is to resist the intrusion, the way he resists the subterranean pull of sleep when he wakes before dawn, stunned and exhausted by dreams.

Cassidy is feeling reckless. Young.

"Is something wrong?" the girl asks sharply.

How like this girl to register the nuance of a moment, a half moment when he (almost) lost control of the car.

Affably, he tells her no, not a thing is wrong. It's just wind.

Resenting the question-not that he will indicate resentment. His manner with the girl is more bemused, placating.

Next exit, Barnegat Light. Cassidy feels a pang of nostalgia. No children in this vehicle, no plans to exit, climb the winding steps to the top of the old lighthouse, peer at the ocean through mounted binoculars while gulls and terns circle the balcony as if expecting to be fed.

Does Cassidy miss being a daddy-a daddy to small children? The overseer of so much emotion, a puppet master with weary arms?

Cassidy half expects the girl to suggest that they go to the lighthouse. It's the sort of tourist attraction that might appeal to her, an occasion for girlish enthusiasm, photos to take on her iPhone.

When they leave the Garden State Parkway for Ocean Drive, she asks if they could please not talk for just a while. The view is so special-she doesn't want to be distracted.

The coastal view is special. The wintry Atlantic roiling, frothing, glittering like a gigantic skin shaking itself, great galleon-clouds passing overhead, torn and tattered by the wind.

But he still feels rebuffed. Rebuked.

Please don't spoil things by talking.